


The Ties that Bind

by fhartz91



Category: Glee
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Blood and Violence, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Future Fic, Gun Violence, Injury, Inspired By Sense8, M/M, Mystery, New York City, Oral Sex, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Sex Work, Sexual Content, Violence, death (not Kurt or Blaine), do not need to follow Sense8 to understand this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-06 22:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11609961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/fhartz91
Summary: Blaine and Kurt are dating, in a long-term relationship, with New York City as their playground. Everything is as close to perfect for the two of them as can be, especially for Blaine, who's living the dream as a songwriter beside his up-and-coming designer boyfriend, both of them without a care in the world. Until one night, he'll find himself connected in a bizarre way to seven other human beings he's never met, trying to solve a mystery - the hunt for a killer and to save a life, all while trying to come to terms with his new forced membership into the collective.(This is a re-write that I got several requests for, based off of the Netflix series Sense8, with a little loose interpretation on some of the specifics - i.e., how the collective get their powers and why, what they need to accomplish as a collective, and the fact that all the players aren't necessarily spread all over the world. Quite a few of them are in NY. Also, this story is going to focus on Kurt and Blaine, with the other characters being satellite to the story, though their stories may end up being explored deeper in one-shots. YOU DON'T NEED TO BE FAMILIAR WITH THE SHOW SENSE8 TO FOLLOW THIS. THIS STORY EXPLAINS IT ALL.)





	1. In the Beginning

“Where are we going?” Kurt giggles, glancing over his shoulder at the club behind them, search lights from the rooftop flashing and music bumping so loud Kurt can barely hear himself think. They’ve left their friends inside, drinking, partying, and getting high. Kurt and Blaine weren’t very sneaky about cutting through the crowd and ducking out the back entrance, but odds are their friends don’t really miss them.

“You’ll see.” Blaine smirks, pulling Kurt closer as they make their way out into the dark parking lot.

“Can’t this wait until we get back to our place?” Kurt asks with a clue as to what Blaine has in mind. He’s not all that thrilled about doing the dirty in the backseat of Blaine’s BMW, not out here, but it’s better than a stall in the bathroom. Besides, it’s been a long night of grinding against his gorgeous boyfriend’s body in the tight confines of this new and slightly-off-the-beaten-path night club.

Honestly, if Blaine hadn’t thought of this, Kurt would have himself.

“Nu-uh,” Blaine replies, making a beeline for his car. “Not when you’ve been rubbing your ass up and down my crotch in those tight jeans for the past two hours. As it is, I’m probably not going to last longer than three seconds once I get you in my lap, and for that, I apologize.”

“You’d _better_ last. Try putting on two condoms. It worked in _American Pie_ ,” Kurt teases, stealing another peek over his shoulder to make sure they’re not attracting any attention. But seeing as Kurt has already spotted another car rocking not too far from Blaine’s BMW being completely ignored by passersby, he doesn’t think that’s going to be an issue.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Blaine says, stopping a few feet from their destination to indulge in one, brief, martini-flavored kiss from his boyfriend, who has already got his hands at Blaine’s waist, working open the buttons to his jeans. They make it to the car, kissing and undressing, tripping over each other’s feet and giggling like teenagers. The streetlamp that Kurt demanded they park underneath for safety blinks uselessly overhead while Blaine pats down his pockets for his keys. His hands grope from front to back, then go over the same pockets again. He spins in a circle, looking down his body in a frantic search for his fob, spitting “Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit!”

“What’s wrong?” Kurt asks, holding his partially unbuttoned shirt closed at the neck.

“I left my keys in my damn jacket,” Blaine groans. “And I checked my jacket when we walked in.”

“Dammit!” Kurt checks his own pockets fruitlessly for his set. Blaine drove specifically so that Kurt could drink, which means that Kurt’s keys – apartment, car, and all – are sitting in a dish on the counter in the kitchen. “And just when I was starting to look forward to reliving that make-out sesh in the back of your old Prius.”

Blaine looks at Kurt, one arm wrapped around his torso as he tries to block a breeze from weeding its way underneath his shirt. Then he scans the parking lot. They parked a fair distance away from the night club, equally far from it and the street. The light sputtering above them goes out more than it’s on, throwing them in darkness for long stretches at a time. But even if it didn’t, the crowds bustling toward the club are too occupied with getting there to give a crap about him and his boyfriend, and the people leaving look too drunk and exhausted to care either way.

He makes an executive decision. Praying that Kurt will be more horny than modest, he grabs him by the waist and starts dragging him into the shadows.

“Blaine …” Kurt goes along with it, too curious to stop him. “What are you doing?” Blaine pushes him up against the car, then drops to his knees. “Blaine! Don’t you dare! Not out here!”

“Why not? No one’s watching.”

“Because …. because … well, just because.” Kurt knows there has to be a reason, even if one isn’t readily springing to mind. But it goes along with words like propriety, decency, and illegal. But if he didn’t have to concern himself with the consequences of being arrested for public indecency, he’d tear off his clothes and straddle his boyfriend’s face right here, right now. He reaches down to shoo Blaine away, but grabbing Kurt’s wrists with one hand and keeping them out of range is a practiced maneuver of Blaine’s. He manages it easily.

“Aren’t you the one who’s always saying that we should break out of our safe little worlds?” Blaine says, swiftly getting Kurt’s fly down and his cock out. He gives him a lick. He tastes sweaty from dancing and sweet from the organic coconut oil he moisturizes with. It’s a combination that makes Blaine salivate.

“ _You_ said that.” Kurt struggles halfheartedly, taking a step back, or _trying_ to, his ass bumping into the passenger door of Blaine’s car. “And we were in _high school_ , remember?”

“Doesn’t mean I wasn’t right.” Blaine sucks Kurt’s cock in his mouth and Kurt’s body shudders.

“Blaine!” Kurt whines, but it’s moot at this point. He’s objecting for show. He’s wanted his boyfriend’s mouth since their first kiss of the evening. When they walked through the door of the club, Blaine’s favorite song was playing. He’d grabbed Kurt around the waist, dipped him low, and kissed him because why not? There were so many people cluttering the dance floor, the two of them were practically invisible. The same way they are now, hidden from the view of people who couldn’t care less if they were having sex or hitting a bong. They’ve gotten this far. They might as well keep going if Blaine is so determined to give him a blow.

That doesn’t mean Kurt won’t give him a hard time about it … so to speak.

“Blaine, I’ll never forgive you if you … Blai---oh … oh  _God_!”

***

“F-fuck you, Donovan!”

Donovan sneers, brown eyes blazing. He rounds on the bruised woman in her torn white button down and running black thigh highs, and slaps her again.

“Fuck _you_ , Kitty!” he screams in her ear, snatching a handful of her blonde hair and shaking till the strands rip out of her scalp. “You fuckin’ bitch! Who do you think you are, huh?” He grabs her face in one hand and squeezes, digging his nails into her cheeks until she yelps in pain. She glares at him, eyes defiant, blistering through him with as much hate as he throws at her. “Where do you think you are, little girl? Huh? This is  _my_  turf, and you work for _me_! You turn tricks for _me_! Got it? You’re  _my_  property!” He shoves her away, intent on knocking her to the ground. She trips backward, stockings snagging on the rough floor beneath her feet, but she remains standing.

“Yeah?” She brings her fingers up - bloodied where her nails had torn in an initial scuffle between her and one of Donovan’s thugs - to examine her split upper lip, and her left eye, swollen shut. “Well, not anymore.”

“Whatcha gonna do?” Donovan tugs at his collar with one hooked finger, then loosens the knot on his silk tie. Trussed up in a three-piece suit, sporting a hundred dollar haircut, he gives off the impression to those who don’t know him that he’s a stand-up guy, not a cheap thug who beats on women. It works with most people, but it never worked on Kitty. She knew him for what he was the first moment she laid eyes on him. She knew, and she should have looked at the ground and kept on walking.

But she needed the money.

Donovan lunges forward and grabs her by the neck.

“You gonna go off with that Puckerman guy? That dumbass cop? You’re gonna tell him all about us, aren’t you? You gonna roll over on us, after _all I’ve done for you_?”

Kitty’s knees turn to rubber. She didn’t know that Donovan knew. She’d been so careful, or so she thought. So this isn’t about her … well, it is, but it’s more about Jake. And now Jake’s in danger.  _Fuck_! She has to think of something. She has to do something quick. She has to protect Jake.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Kitty says, and she means it, but fear slips in and she doesn’t sound too convincing. “I never had any intention of telling him.”

“And why should I believe you, huh?” He squeezes harder, overwrought with rage and a snort of blow. “Why? Because you’ve been so fucking loyal to us till now?”

Kitty can see in his eyes – too much pupil and blood-shot whites - he’s gone crazy. Donovan has come unhinged once or twice, but this - this is fucking _frightening_.

“B-because I love him,” she says. She realizes too late that probably wasn’t the smartest thing she could have done, revealing the one thing that had become so important to her, she knew she couldn’t live without it. “B-because I … I don’t want you to hurt him.”

But here’s her chance. Donovan likes weak women. It turns him on – whimpering and sniveling, begging for mercy. Maybe she can find a way out of this if she gives him something he wants.

“Well, then …” Donovan presses his evil grin against her cheek “… maybe you do nice, and I leave you and your little cop friend alone.” He pushes down on her neck, forcing her to the ground. “On your knees ... and open your mouth.”

***

“Oh … oh God, Blaine,” Kurt moans, thrusting his hips forward, leaning back on the car to keep from collapsing to the floor. It’s too much … it’s just too much, too good. Blaine, he’s … he’s just too good at this. “Oh God, oh God, oh God …”

Blaine pulls away from Kurt’s cock and smiles, looking up at his wrecked boyfriend with smug satisfaction.

“So, do you forgive me?” he asks, teasing the head of Kurt’s cock with his tongue while he waits for an answer.

“Maybe,” Kurt says, shivering as his spit-covered dick catches the chill from the air. “Not yet. Less talking, more sucking.” He grabs Blaine’s hair and yanks him forward, with Blaine chuckling as he takes his boyfriend back into his mouth.

***

“I want you to remember this, Kitty,” Donovan moans, sinking his fingers into the sides of her head and fucking her mouth hard, “when you go down on Mr. Cop boyfriend of yours. I’m gonna cum so far down your throat that you’re gonna taste me instead. And then you’re never gonna forget that I got to you first.”

Donovan laughs, thick and cruel. And contagious. Other men laugh, too, and a few women - too high and too scared to do anything other than go along with it and pray that they don’t end up in Kitty’s shoes next. Kitty vomits a little, choking on it. She’d stopped being able to breath a while ago, and the world has started to go black. Her nostrils burn and her eyes water. Her face turns bright red, but her lips a pale blue, stretched tight over Donovan’s cock, the split in her lip spreading and oozing blood.

“Nico,” Donovan calls to one of his flunkies nearby. “Why don’t you take out your phone and record this so we can send it to boyfriend right now?”

Donovan thrusts hard and Kitty retches, eliciting a louder wave of laughter from the men in the room. But inside her addled brain, she panics - lack of oxygen mixed with the fear that Donovan might have Jake’s number, that he might know where he lives, that Donovan could snap his fingers and send someone to Jake’s apartment to pick him up, drag him down here, watch her be raped with a gun to his head, and then …

What would they do to him? They’d probably kill him, but it wouldn’t be quick.

It wouldn’t be painless.

She can’t give them the chance. She has to get away. She has to protect him. She should have known better than to get wrapped up with him. She should have pushed him away – far away.

But it’s too late for that now.

Now she has to do something.

First, she has to breathe. She can’t pass out here. She can’t let them leave her here while they hunt Jake down. But she can’t think. She can’t breathe and she can’t think. So instead, she reacts.

She bites down hard.

“Ow! God … dammit!” Donovan kicks Kitty in the stomach, sending her sprawling to the floor. “Jesus fucking Christ!” With his hand over his cock, he drops to his knees, sucking in deep breaths to rid himself of the throbbing pain. “You … you fucking … you bitch! Nico!”

Nico stomps over from where he’s been laughing in the shadows. Suddenly serious, he whips Kitty in the temple with the butt of his gun. She cries out, curling into a ball, shaking hands covering her bleeding face.

“You never learn, Kitty,” Donovan says, shoving his sore cock back in his pants and zipping up, still unable to stand. “You never fucking learn! I was good to you.” He flicks his eyes at Nico and nods. Nico whips her again. She cries harder. “I was fucking good to you! But you never learn! And if a bitch can’t learn, you’re not worth anything. Nico.”

Nico looks at his boss, then down at Kitty with a grim smile. He cocks his weapon.

Kitty hears it. She knows what’s going to happen. She knows she can’t stop it.

“Go … to … hell …” she groans, spitting out blood and the shattered pieces of a wisdom tooth. There’s nothing - no way to save Jake. No way to avoid this. It would take an army to save them.

She would do anything in her power to give Jake an army.

She closes her eyes.

Donovan smiles at her surrender.

“You first,” he says. “And then the boyfriend, too.”

Nico puts the barrel to her head.

***

“Oh … oh Blaine! Yes, Blaine! Just like … that---Oh  _God_ …”

Kurt cums in Blaine’s mouth, his high-pitched staccato gasp hitting the air like a bullet going off in Blaine’s head. Blaine chuckles at that picture, of Kurt’s mouth opening and, “Bang!” But it was probably just a car backfiring at an inopportune time. They  _are_  outside, after all, which probably explains why Kurt is cumming so hard. Regardless of how he acts, how prim, how innocent, how scandalized he pretends to be when he sees two people going at it in a dark alley or a parked car, he can be quite the exhibitionist when he wants to be – with Blaine, at least.

With Blaine’s attention trained solely on Kurt, trying to see his o-face, Blaine could fool himself into believing it _was_ a gunshot he heard. But he stops himself thinking about that because Blaine loves this part – when Kurt’s body folds, unable to stay upright, his cock pulsing and twitching as he shoots into Blaine’s mouth. He feels Kurt spurt hot and wet all over his face … but _how_? Blaine has his lips locked around his boyfriend’s cock and he’s sucking him dry. There’s no way …

Blaine shifts his gaze and catches a glimpse of himself in the reflective surface of his BMW. It doesn’t register at first. It looks like Kurt’s cum, but only for a split second. Then Blaine’s eyes go wide. His face … it’s covered in blood! _Kurt’s_ blood! It has to be. There’s no other explanation. And that sound, like a gunshot ...

_No! It was a gunshot! Kurt’s been shot!_

Blaine pulls back when he hears Kurt groan. Kurt bends forward, his arms wrapped around his waist.

“OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod, Kurt!” Blaine goes to stand, but the ball of his foot hits a patch of loose, wet gravel, and he slides. He falls hard on his knee, sending pain spiraling up his leg, temporarily crippling him. “Fuck! Help! Someone help!” He reaches out to catch Kurt before he falls. “My boyfriend’s been shot! Someone help! Help us, please!”

A ruckus builds, confused people talking over one another, running his way.

Arms wrap around him. A voice talks in his ear.

“Baby.” Kurt kneels on the asphalt in front of his boyfriend, gathering him up, shaking like a leaf in his arms. “Baby, what’s wrong? Talk to me.” But Blaine can’t answer, his muscles turning to Jell-O the tighter Kurt holds on. The gunshot echoes in his head. He remembers the blood streaming down his face, the sound of Kurt in pain … or someone else in pain. A woman, maybe? Whimpering … crying … begging …

For  _Jake_?

“It’s alright everybody,” Kurt calls out to the forming crowd. “It’s okay. No one’s been shot. There’s been a mistake.”

“What the …?” A few people grumble, throwing Kurt and Blaine annoyed looks before heading back to the club, but even more people sound relieved. If one false alarm is all the excitement they get for tonight, they’ll be glad.

“Are you sure you don’t need 9-1-1?” A man standing beyond the circle of light created by the suddenly steady streetlamp asks. “Your friend there doesn’t look too good.”

“I’m sure. Thank you,” Kurt replies with a smile, trying to be polite while he fights to ignore the aftershocks of the orgasm that has yet to subside, and the cramp he got in his abs from holding his breath. “We’re good. He’s just … he’s just a little …” Kurt doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure  _what_ Blaine is right now actually. Blaine didn’t have a lot to drink, and he didn’t take anything.

What the hell was going on?

But for whatever Kurt _didn’t_ say, the man seems to understand, raising a hand to wave and leaving the two men alone. Kurt watches the crowd disperse, waiting until he knows they’re alone before he tries again with Blaine.

“Blaine?” Kurt looks into his boyfriend’s face, seeing only his forehead, the bridge of his nose, and his eyelashes, wet with tears. “What happened, baby? You scared me to death.”

“I … I thought you’d been” - Blaine swallows the last word. It barely makes it out of his mouth - “shot.”

“Shot? By who, baby? Who would shoot me? There’s nobody else here.” Kurt turns his head left and right. The parking lot is empty now. The sidewalk almost so, and only a few cars drive down the one-way street beyond. He didn’t hear anything while Blaine was blowing him, but he was in his zone, tuning out everything else and focusing on Blaine’s exquisite mouth.

Damn Blaine and that tongue of his, making Kurt oblivious to everything.

“I don’t know.” Blaine shakes his head. “I just …”

Blaine raises his eyes and takes another look at his reflection - desperate to erase that image of himself with blood streaming down his face - and goes into shock. It’s not him. The reflection that should be his is not. It’s a young woman, with long blonde hair clinging to her cheeks; bright blue eyes, red around the rims; and a gunshot wound in the center of her forehead, pouring blood down her pale skin, over her eyelids, her nose, her mouth. Her eyes gloss over, half-dead already, but she whispers something he can only read as her lips move.

“I see you,” she says, the faintest hint of a smile on her face. “Remember …” She looks like she’s trying to say something else, but nothing. She’s run out of time. Her eyes roll back, her body falling through space. The image disappears, replaced by his own, which he hardly recognizes.

Tears roll down his cheeks. He can’t get them to stop. He feels like he’s going to be sick in Kurt’s arms.

“What is it?” Kurt asks, concern turning into fear. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

Blaine doesn’t know why he answers the way he does. It doesn’t make sense, but he can’t think of any other answer. His mind has gone a hundred shades of blank. He tries not to say it, pinching his lips tight and biting them together till they sting, but there’s no way he can’t. He has to let the words out or else they’re going to rip him to pieces.

“K-kitty,” he says, trembling so hard, his body might fall apart. “Someone shot … someone killed …” He shakes his head again, looking at Kurt’s confused face, his eyes searching for any sign that he thinks Blaine has gone insane. But Kurt doesn’t, because that’s not the man Kurt is. Kurt loves Blaine. He’ll find a way to believe him. He’ll help him. So Blaine needs to tell him. “Someone killed Kitty, and I … I have to find Jake.”

 


	2. Abandoned Warehouses in My Mind

Pacing the living room in his Burberry wingtips, Kurt starts wearing a path in the knotty pine floor. He holds his cell phone to his ear with his right hand and kneads his pinched brow with the fingers of his left. A song by Imagine Dragons plays over the line while he waits for someone to pick up, and Kurt has to tighten his grip on his phone to keep from throwing it across the room.  _Fucking ring back song_ , Kurt thinks. He can never remember the words to this one, so it becomes irritating when it goes on too long.

The song cuts off when the man he called picks up, and Kurt pounces.

“Chase?” Kurt says when he hears a tired, “Hello?” come through the receiver. “Yeah, we got home alright. Listen, I have a question - did you see anybody slip something to Blaine tonight? … What? … No, it’s just … something happened to him when we left, and I’m a bit worried … Kevin? You think Kevin maybe? ... That rat bastard! No, I won’t tell him you said anything … Okay, thanks … He will be, but I’ll let Blaine know.”

Blaine listens from the bedroom as Kurt disconnects that call and starts immediately on another, barely letting the poor sap on the other end of the line say, “What’s up?” before Kurt tears into him.

“Kevin … yeah, hey … no, I’m not really doing all that good. Look, tell me honestly - did you give Blaine something? … Because if you did, I need to know what it was in case I have to take him to the hospital ... No, I’m not joking. I’m _damn_ serious, Kevin. Something happened to him tonight, and it messed him up … Well, he was acting like he’d dropped something, except I know he didn’t because I was with him all night … No, I don’t care what you think! If you put something in his drink and I find out about it, I swear to God, I’m going to break into your apartment and pop the buttons off every one of those tacky Dolce and Gabbana shirts you think go with everything … then I’m going to _kill_ you!”

Blaine chuckles into his pillow, nearly giving himself away. He’s supposed to be asleep. He thought after he got home he’d be well on his way.

Blaine had been a mess in the parking lot, even after the specter of Kitty had faded. No matter how hard Kurt tried, no matter what he said to soothe his boyfriend, what he promised he’d do to make things better, he couldn’t get Blaine to calm down. Kurt managed to get Blaine into the car and ended up driving them home while Blaine did the only thing he could do - passed out for the entire ride, not opening his eyelids an inch until they got back to their apartment. The whole trip home, Blaine’s mind stayed blank up until he _had_ to wake up. Then the visions came back with a vengeance, snapping at him as if they had teeth. When he regained consciousness, he had a feeling in his gut, wedged down deep where other far more innocent premonitions in his life had come from, that what he had seen in the parking lot wasn’t a hallucination.

It was real.

Somewhere in the world had been a woman named Kitty, and Blaine had witnessed her murder. He saw her get shot. He saw her bleed. He watched her die.

And even though she was dead, somehow she needed his help.

 _Jake_  needed his help.

Blaine had to find Jake.

These are facts, clues to a puzzle he doesn’t understand, but that he has an urgent need to solve.

He feels like lives may depend on it. Lives close to him.

When they got home, Kurt put Blaine immediately into a shower, and after multiple assurances that he’d be okay, left him alone to bathe, to cry or scream, whatever he needed to do. He made Blaine a mug of steamed milk - not because Blaine likes it, but because Kurt needed something to do, otherwise he might have a mini-break down himself. Blaine finished with his shower, and Kurt sat with him on their bed while he drank. Then Kurt tucked him under the comforter, and kissed him goodnight.

Kurt goes straight into Mother Hen mode whenever Blaine falls the slightest bit ill, and Blaine is grateful for that. He needed it. He needed to know that Kurt was in his corner, and he was. He didn’t judge Blaine for his break down. Blaine knew Kurt wouldn’t. He tried to explain what he meant about Kitty and Jake, the things that he saw, even though he had no rational way of explaining them or understanding them. Kurt listened, and he tried to make sense out of it, but Blaine was in no condition for a lengthy discussion on the subject. So Kurt sat beside him in silence, holding Blaine’s hand until his eyes grew heavy, only leaving him when he felt sleep was inevitable. But as soon as Blaine heard Kurt leave the room, he opened his eyes again. He couldn’t relax. He was spooked. He knew he was at home, in his apartment, but he felt detached, disconnected, like part of him was somewhere else.

He was afraid that other part might be with Kitty.

He didn’t want to close his eyes. Every time he did, he saw Kitty staring back at him, as if she was sitting right in front of him, holding his hand instead of Kurt, whispering in his ear the same words over and over – “Find Jake. Help Jake. Please, do this for me.”

Blaine knows he isn’t going to sleep tonight. He’ll make himself stay up if he has to put lit cigarettes out on the back of his hand. He can’t see her again – her eyes growing dim as the life inside them goes out; the hole in the center of her forehead breathing smoke, and all that blood gushing down her face, painting streaks on her skin.

Her pale skin. Pale like Kurt’s. With lifeless eyes, blue like Kurt’s. It’s too easy to mistake Kurt for her, or her for Kurt, in Blaine’s traumatized mind.

When Kurt thought that Blaine was finally drifting off, he stepped out into the living room and started making calls to every friend they’d hung out with at the club that night, determined to find out if someone had slipped Blaine something without them knowing. Blaine had already told Kurt that he didn’t think so. In the beginning, Blaine couldn’t be 100% sure, but something in his bones said that this wasn’t a bad trip. Whatever he saw, as inconceivable as it seemed, was real. But that was the way Kurt worked. It’s not that he wasn’t open to the possibilities, it’s just that he needed to eliminate the easily explainable first.

And regardless of whatever history Kurt had with their friends, he wasn’t afraid of dumping every single one to protect his man.

Blaine loves that about him.

Kurt makes his final phone call, berates his last “suspect”, and decides to pack it in for the night. He doesn’t want to leave Blaine alone. He takes a quick rinse off and climbs into bed. He wraps Blaine up protectively in his arms and holds his boyfriend against him. As far as Kurt is concerned, whatever wants to hurt Blaine, mess with his head and tear him to pieces, is going to have to do it over Kurt’s dead body. Lying in Kurt’s arms, soaking in the heat from Kurt’s skin fresh from the shower, filling him with warmth, comfort, and a love that blankets all, Blaine is almost fine to go to sleep. He can just about fall out into dreamless oblivion with Kurt there as his anchor, tethering him to reality. As long as he’s with Kurt, everything can return to normal again.

Everything will be fine.

“Kitty …”

The voice weaves in and out of Blaine’s head, buzzing through his sinuses.

“Kitty, where are you?”

It’s right inside his ears, but then it’s farther away, traveling off into the distance. Blaine opens his eyes and looks around, as much as he can without disturbing Kurt’s sleep, but he doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary - just his half of the bedroom, softly lit from a lamp outside.

 _Kurt forgot to close the blackout curtains,_  Blaine thinks, but then the light goes from white to blue. It flickers, as if a bulb from outside has begun to burn out.

Like that streetlamp over Blaine’s BMW in the parking lot of the club.

“Ja-ake,” a voice sings back. “Come get me, Jake …”

Blaine feels himself get up and start walking, but he’s also lying in bed beneath Kurt’s distressed print comforter, with his boyfriend’s arm draped over his torso. Blaine’s footsteps start to drag, becoming heavy and loud, like he’s wearing metal-soled shoes, and walking across a cement floor.

“Where are you, Kitty?”

A giggle – girlish, childlike – answers his question.

“Don’t make me come find you.”

“Awww, but finding is where the fun is, Jakey.”

Blaine hears footsteps run away from him, lighter than his own, and he considers giving chase - why, he has no idea. But then others join them. The first set slows as the others catch up. There’s a scuffle, then a thud, several thuds, and the giggles turn in to screams.

A loud bang, like a metal pot dropping onto the ground, echoes through the building, except it’s not a metal pot, and Blaine knows it. He’s heard that sound once tonight already, and he’ll never forget it. A gunshot. It’s a gunshot.

Somewhere in this creepy, deserted building, where Blaine walks unprotected and alone, someone has been shot.

“Kitty? Kitty!?” a man cries. “Oh, God no! Oh, please, no! _Kitty_!”

Blaine follows that voice, those cries, even as they bounce around him, making the direction of their source unclear. But he’s not following the sound, he realizes. He’s following the emotion welling up within him when he hears them, when they shoot inside him and poke holes into his soul. He’s following himself, because for a second, _he’s_ the person screaming. He’s the man weeping, tears dripping down his cheeks, wetting a spot on the floor that’s covered in old, sticky blood. _Kitty’s_ blood. Blaine blinks and he sees her there, lying with her eyes wide open while everything else about her shuts down.

Crouching beside the stain, holding his hand out as if he’s caressing her face, Blaine finds a young police officer. The officer looks up, dark eyes scanning Blaine from head to foot, eyebrows pulled together in the middle.

“Who are you?” the officer asks, putting a hand to his hip, hovering where his service weapon hangs in its holster.

Blaine should put his hands up, but he doesn’t. He should stop walking forward, but he can’t. What’s going on now shouldn’t be happening, so he figures those rules don’t apply.

“You’re Jake,” Blaine says. He should be asking, but he knows he’s right. Jake Puckerman. Kitty’s cop boyfriend.

“Yeah,” Jake says. “How did you …?” He stops himself and shakes his head. “Probably the same way I know that your name is Blaine. There’s a voice, and it whispers in my head when I look at you.” Jake looks away. “It’s  _her_  voice.” He stands, looking at Blaine one more time and noting his clothing, or lack thereof.

“Yes,” Blaine says. There _is_ a voice. It’s not so clearly defined, but it’s there, and it belongs to Kitty. This voice links the two of them together, him and Jake, and Blaine fears it will never go away.

Having the voice of a dead woman in his head is not the way he wants to go insane.

“What are you doing here?” Jake brushes his hands together, trying to clear away the dust that attaches itself to everything the second you walk into the place.

“I … I don’t know. I mean, I assume I’m dreaming, and that you’re a part of that dream.”

“Yeah, well, that’s going around,” Jake grumbles. His eyes sweep the area, and Blaine feels compelled to copy him. They’re no longer in the dusty, abandoned warehouse. They’re in Blaine’s bedroom, and Blaine is still in bed with Kurt. “Nice place,” Jake says, not sounding at all surprised. “Is that a real Mitchell?” He motions over Blaine’s shoulder. Blaine knows exactly what painting Jake is referring to, but he looks anyway because it shouldn’t be there. But there it is, hanging behind him, because he’s back at his apartment. Or he is for a second. When he looks again, he’s with Jake in the warehouse, the switch happening so fast, Blaine’s head throbs.

“Yeah. It’s my boyfriend’s ...” Blaine stops short of telling Jake Kurt’s name. He isn’t sure he should have mentioned Kurt in the first place, or that he should tell Jake anything more than he already knows.

“He’s got excellent taste.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Jake sighs. “This was _our_ place.” He looks at his feet, at the ground beneath him, visualizing paths he’d walked many, many times to get to the woman he loved. He could do it in the dark.

He just didn’t do it fast enough this time.

Blaine looks at the building around him. “You guys  _lived_  here?”

“No, but we met here,” Jake explains. “This spot is on my beat, so when we started seeing each other, she knew I’d be here eventually. She’d wait for me.” Jake reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Swiping the screen, he brings up a picture of a young woman with bright, blues eyes, wavy blonde hair falling in front of her face, and a sneaky twist of a smile on her gloss-painted lips.

“Is that Kitty?” Blaine asks.

“Yeah,” Jake says. “Kitty Wilde. She was my girl, but I guess she belongs to all of us now.”

“ _Us_?” A lump fills Blaine’s throat. He’d had a suspicion, a feeling there were more, not only him, but he wasn’t certain. “Who’s  _us_?”

“You, me, them. You’ll see them. They’ll see you. You’ll find them … even when you don’t want to. She gave them to us. Now they’re ours, and we have to take care of them.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re being hunted.”

“Hunted!? By who?”

“By the men who killed Kitty. The  _real_  killers, not just the ones that put the bullet through her head.”

Blaine sees white flashes coming from Jake’s eyes, projecting images in his head:

Kitty wearing a hospital gown, handed a small paper cup of pills that she tosses to the floor, followed by a glass of water that she bats out of an unseen nurse’s hand.

Kitty tossing and turning on a gurney, her nose swollen and bloody.

Kitty struggling to escape while men in white coats strap her to a bed.

A doctor giving Kitty a shot in the arm, her blue eyes glowing a metallic silver, then bleeding at the corners.

Blaine shakes his head to get the images to stop, but they come at him faster, thoughts that belong to Jake, thoughts that belonged to Kitty, thoughts that belong to people he hasn’t met, their voices overlapping, some trying to get his attention, others wondering the same thing he is – _What’s going on? Why? Why did this happen to me? I’ve never even met this woman! I want this to stop right now!_

“Wait!” Blaine says, expressing out loud what he and all those other voices are thinking. “I didn’t sign up for this! I can’t do this!”

Jake simply stares at him, his face blank, his eyes exhausted, his mind done. Blaine can feel it.

“If not you,” Jake says, “then no one.”

“No,” Blaine says firmly. “I can’t. Look, I’m sorry about Kitty. I really am. But I can’t do anything about it. I can’t help you.”

“You have to.” Jake says it like, no matter what Blaine decides he wants, he has no choice.

“But _why_? _Why_ do I have to?” another voice – a woman’s voice - argues. Blaine looks to his left, to a person who’s drawn Jake’s attention, and sees a heavyset black woman standing beside him, gesturing with her hands as she makes the same argument Blaine was about to make. “I was doing just fine until you guys dropped into my life, overcame a lot of crap to get where I am. I didn’t ask for this. Why should I help you? What’s in it for me?”

“What’s in it for you?” Jake laughs dryly. “You get to live, that’s what’s in it for you. Because if they find us, they’ll kill us.” Jake’s gaze flicks to Blaine, past his shoulder, then returns to his eyes. “Him, too.”

Blaine jerks his head around. The black woman is gone, and they’re suddenly in Blaine’s bedroom, Blaine sitting up in bed and Jake seated on the edge of his mattress. Blaine sees sleeping Kurt behind him, eyes closed, unconscious to the bizarre episode Blaine is having at this moment.

“Except that what they want, they want from _you_ ,” Jake adds, “so they might not let  _him_  off so easily.”

Blaine doesn’t want to know what Jake means, but his mind becomes overwhelmed with images of violence, torture, of Kitty before she died – beatings, rapes, ligature marks, rope burns on her wrists, her ankles, dug in deep. Bruises on pale skin that could be Kurt’s. Festering red blisters on hands that could be Kurt’s. Blackened skin around blue eyes that could be Kurt’s.

Kurt – Blaine’s safety net, his rock. They had such a relatively blasé life until about nine hours ago. How did things take such a weird turn? Why are they all of a sudden in danger?

Blaine doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to be a part of this at all. Maybe Jake can get him out of this somehow. Maybe he knows the remedy, the antidote to this … this … whatever it is he has now.

Maybe he knows how to severe the connection.

He has to. Blaine needs to keep Kurt safe because he’ll be damned if his boyfriend suffers the same fate as Kitty.

Blaine turns to Jake to ask him how. How does he get rid of this? How does he get his life back? How does he become _normal_ again? But Jake – the man who loved Kitty, the man Blaine is supposed to save - is gone.

 


	3. An Unintended Foursome

Blaine can’t sleep.

He shakes all over, shakes too much, like he has caught a chill beneath his skin that he can’t ward away, even huddled under Kurt’s thick comforter, with his boyfriend’s arms around him. His mind is fractured, his thoughts scattered. He finds it hard to keep track of them, or to hold on to a single one. Thinking about simple things that should keep him grounded – his phone number, his address, his middle name - become painful. And then, in the middle, he recoils. Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking of those things, things that could be used to identify him, locate him. Not when God knows how many people have access to his head.

He tries to empty it, make it blank. But every time he finds quiet, a moment of nothing, something interrupts – a thought, a memory, a voice, a conversation - and none of it belongs to him. He thinks about going for a jog, figuring the cold air and physical exertion will clear his head, but he doesn’t want to run into any other ghosts … or _worse_ , the men Jake spoke of. Apparently, the thugs who beat Kitty, raped Kitty, and shot her through the skull aren’t the big baddies. There’s someone else Blaine has to worry about out there, someone he doesn’t know exists.

Someone he has yet to see.

How does he defend himself, and Kurt, when he doesn’t know who’s after them? Or _why_?

What if these other people have psychic abilities, too? Does Blaine _really_ have psychic abilities? Nothing like this has ever happened to him before, so he isn’t exactly sure _what_ to call it. Conveniently, Jake disappeared before he could relay that information. Blaine tries to summon him back. He thinks about Kitty, pictures her eyes, her face, her voice, her murder, and uses those to try and lure Jake into his mind. He even tries calling out for Kitty, the prospect of actually making contact with her scaring him half to death. But he has no luck on either account, and he feels defeated.

Then there are the others – the people Jake spoke about, the ones that Kitty  _gave_  him. Jake had been the first, that black lady a sort of second, but they wouldn’t be the last. There are more than just them. Blaine can _feel_ them, and they could show up at any time - in Blaine’s apartment, at his work, while he’s in the toilet. Or he could be zapped to wherever they are. And then what? What would happen? And when would that be? The uncertainty is maddening. Blaine hears them, their existence a low hum throughout his body. Sometimes they laugh, one of them even screams, but then they’re gone. For hours, there’ll be silence, and then another will come back. He sees things he’s sure aren’t meant for his eyes. He sees the moon, but not over New York City. He sees a restaurant kitchen, smells veal and garlic cooking.

Then nothing.

For over an hour, everything goes back to normal except that he’s not, and he knows it. He’s finally ready to try and sleep when he feels a touch on his shoulder. He thinks it’s Kurt. He’s about to say something to him, but he blinks, and suddenly he’s staring into the face of a beautiful Latina, with shining brown eyes, smiling at him … but not at him. It lasts less than a second, and then she’s gone.

Well, he was right before. He’s not going to sleep, and he doesn’t want to be alone. Not that he  _is_  alone. He’s destined _not_ to be alone, for however long that lasts. But he needs his boyfriend. He doesn’t just need the distraction; he needs  _Kurt_. He needs the connection he has with him, a connection to a person he  _chose_.

A connection that belongs to him alone.

He turns in Kurt’s arms, feeling guilty that he’s waking up his boyfriend, who’s been blissfully dead to the world this whole time. At least, that’s what Blaine thought. But the reality has been much different, hidden from him while he’s had his back turned. Kurt might be lying still, but he doesn’t look calm - his brow drawn in at the center, his teeth clenched, his jaw tensed from the pressure he’s putting on it. His lips move, angrily telling someone in his head what for. What happened tonight was horrible and frightening for Blaine, but watching him go through it, helpless to stop it, must have been as bad for Kurt.

Blaine remembers feeling that same way when Kurt was attacked a few years back. Walking home from a dinner date with a friend, he came across two homophobic assholes beating up a gay man, and Kurt ran to his rescue. The victim ended up ditching Kurt, leaving Kurt to get beat up instead. Blaine received the call at home when Kurt was en route to the hospital. He ran out so quickly, he almost forgot to put on his jacket or lock the loft door. But along the way, he got caught in a net of unfortunate mishaps. His bus got stuck in traffic. The train he diverted to broke down. The taxi he caught after that ended up behind a three car pile-up. It was a mess, and the whole time, Blaine felt too far away.

Useless.

Kurt is a force of nature, fiercely protective of everyone in need, especially the people he loves. Looking at Kurt, his eyes closed, feverishly defending Blaine to the voices nagging his brain, Blaine knows Kurt is the most wonderful, most compassionate, most caring man that he has ever met. The irony of their relationship, though, is that the two of them met while Kurt was being bullied at school. It had gone on daily for years, and no one seemed to notice. The few people who did notice, didn’t seem to care. Kurt wasn’t actively searching for a safe space at the time. In fact, he’d given up hope that he could find some peace and normalcy in his life. But he ended up finding that at Dalton.

Along with finding Blaine.

Blaine helped Kurt confront his high school bully. He helped Kurt overcome the stigma of being the only out gay person at his school. Blaine was there for Kurt, held his hand, stood up for him, transferred schools to be with him, and it felt good. Blaine loved being his boyfriend’s protector. But more and more, Kurt has grown beyond the need to have Blaine protect him. He’s become stronger, more confident, more secure with who he is, his identity, and how he presents that identity to others. He doesn’t need to hold Blaine’s hand anymore. In fact, there have been several times when Kurt has forded ahead and led the charge when Blaine would have stood fast and waited.

Kurt is a fearless, self-sufficient man. He isn’t a delicate flower who needs his boyfriend to protect him.

He doesn’t rely on Blaine.

But ever since they moved to New York, Blaine has begun to rely on Kurt.

He’s relying on Kurt now, to get rid of the fear within him. He needs to have the one person that belongs only to him.

He kisses Kurt on the cheeks, on the eyelids, on the mouth. Kurt’s lips stop moving, his tirade over, and his eyelids pop open.

“Oh God!” He laughs, gasping as if his heart stopped and restarted in the space of those kisses. “Blaine! You’re awake. You scared the crap out of me!”

“Did you think it was someone else?” Blaine kids, but Kurt doesn’t buy into the façade. He sees through Blaine’s attempt at humor. He knows that Blaine’s not okay. He felt him tossing and turning, heard him mumbling in his sleep, calling out names Kurt didn’t recognize.

He heard Blaine crying.

Kurt puts a hand to Blaine’s cheek. “Baby, what’s wrong? Please, tell me.”

“Nothing,” Blaine lies. “Nothing’s wrong.”

But Kurt knows better.

“Blaine, you know that whatever it is, whatever’s bothering you, no matter how it sounds, you can talk to me.”

“I know,” Blaine says, pulling Kurt against him, “but I … I don’t want to talk right now. I just need …” He kisses Kurt’s forehead, his hairline, the bridge of his nose, hoping his actions will speak for him because his mind just wants to shut down.

Kurt moves to fit better against him, returning kisses to his chin, traveling along his jaw to his neck. “It’s all right. I understand.”

Kurt throws a leg over Blaine’s hip and rolls on top of him, but Blaine pushes back, pins him to the mattress, and Kurt lets Blaine have him the way he needs him. Blaine undresses Kurt, kissing his way down his body. He moves so slowly, he’s gone beyond taking his time, but Kurt doesn’t argue, and he doesn’t tease him.

He doesn’t say anything when Blaine’s breathing hitches, when it sounds like he’s choking down a sob.

Blaine makes his way back to Kurt’s chest, up the column of his neck, and kisses Kurt’s mouth with his eyes open. He doesn’t want Kurt to disappear. He doesn’t want to end up somewhere else. He needs to live in this moment, needs to figure out a way to keep the magic/spirits/hallucinations from taking over without his permission.

“Oh, God … Blaine,” Kurt moans when his boyfriend’s fingers explore, toy, dip inside and scissor before slipping out and venturing elsewhere. “Oh, yes, Blaine. Oh God …”

“… _Santana_ …”

It rings in Blaine’s head, clear as the sunlight seeping in below the curtains, but it’s more than that. It’s imprinted in his blood, turns everything inside him to ice. Blaine’s first instinct is to stop when he hears a woman’s voice moan that name inside his head - not Kitty’s voice, one of  _their_  voices - but he keeps going for Kurt’s sake. He doesn’t want Kurt to know anything is wrong. Kurt will want to talk about it for certain, and Blaine can’t risk that. He moves quickly - spreads Kurt’s legs, lubes up, and buries himself inside his boyfriend’s body. Kurt yelps in surprise, but as Blaine doesn’t seem to be taking his time about things anymore, Kurt winds his legs around his boyfriend’s hips and holds on tight.

“Oh, God …”

_“… Santana … oh, Santana …”_

“Blaine, I … I love you …”

_“Santana …”_

“I ...”

_“… want you …”_

“… Blaine …”

_“… Santana …”_

“Fuck!” Blaine grunts, squeezing his eyes shut and shoving his head into the pillow beside Kurt’s left ear. Kurt moans, locking his legs tighter, under the impression that Blaine is close to cumming, and he lets himself go with it.

Blaine takes a breath and holds it. He focuses on his physical presence, and tries to let his body run the show without him while he gets his mind straight, but he made the mistake of closing his eyes … which means he’ll have to open them again. And when he does, Kurt might not be there. But Blaine can’t hide. The ghosts or whatever will find him eventually.

It’s only a matter of time.

He opens them slowly, a sliver with each inhale of breath, hoping he’ll glimpse the unexpected before he has to come face to face with it. He suspects he already knows. He can feel it by way of a peculiar buzzing in his head, a pinging in his body that wasn’t there before, announcing its arrival.

When his eyes open, Kurt is gone.

He can still hear Kurt’s voice - his sweet, high moans; his breathy pants; signs that he’s so, so close - but beneath Blaine is a woman, her long, blonde hair spilling over the pillow; blue eyes wide with alarm, but not frightened. She’s completely naked, and he knows that wherever she is, she has to be having sex with someone – with Santana – right at this moment. She gasps when she sees him, surprised, but completely turned on. She’s not Kitty.

She’s one of  _them_.

“Blaine,” she whispers.

He shakes his head, muttering, “No, no, no,” and she disappears. He’s looking at Kurt again, head thrown back, hands locked on Blaine’s forearms, pounding his hips against Blaine’s body, siphoning the ecstasy from his stilled hips. Blaine holds on to this image, keeps his eyes open till they burn. He can’t leave Kurt. Kurt can’t disappear.

Kurt swoops up to kiss him, but before their lips touch, Blaine sees the blonde woman, and this time, he’s kissing her. She moans into his mouth. It’s delicious, sinful, fulfilling, but he feels himself backing away.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He _really_ wants to.

But he doesn’t want to.

Not because he feels like he’s cheating, though he kind of does, even with Kurt right there, unaware of anything going on. This woman doesn’t feel like a separate entity. She’s a part of Blaine, somewhere inside him. She’s in his head, in his body, flowing through his veins like blood and filling up his lungs like oxygen. She’s in his thoughts, her fantasies aligning with his until not only are he and she having sex on his bed, but somewhere in between what’s real and what’s illusion, Kurt and Santana are making love, too, in this blonde woman’s room, somewhere in California.

Which means that she’s fucking Kurt, and Blaine doesn’t want that. He wants Kurt for himself. He wanted to keep this one thing for him and him alone. But now that’s gone, too, and he didn’t have a choice. None of this was his choice. This woman, Brittany (he knows because of Kitty’s voice in his head, and her partner enthusiastically calling out her name with every bang of her headboard against some distant wall) is with him, while having an intimate moment of her own, which is why the universe, or whatever, chose this moment to connect them.

 _Fuck_!

“Blaine?” Kurt’s brow wrinkles with concern. “Are you alright? I don’t think you’re cumming, baby.”

“I am,” Blaine lies, and he hates that it’s becoming a habit.

“Blaine” – Kurt runs a hand up Blaine’s arm – “you’re trembling! Are you sure you’re …”

“Can we not talk about this?” Blaine begs, moving when he realizes he’d stopped and Kurt’s been doing most of the work. “Please, just … not right now.”

“Okay. Okay.” Kurt pulls Blaine down to his body. “We won’t talk about it.”

Blaine nods, thankful that he doesn’t have to explain more than that.

That he doesn’t have to lie again.

He wraps his arms around Kurt’s torso and hugs him till he’s finished, finding too late the closeness that he craved.

He can’t let Kurt know. Kurt can never know. This is going to be Blaine’s secret, Goddammit, no matter what it costs. He’s going to take it with him to his grave.

Kurt cums with his teeth in Blaine’s bicep and, “I love you,” on his lips, starry-eyed and sated in Blaine’s arms. But Blaine’s orgasm is weak, his head too wrapped up in complicated scenarios and worries and fear. He can’t be carefree with Kurt like this. Not yet. Not with all these people he’s carrying with him.

Maybe not ever again.

 


	4. Saturday in the Park with Rachel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of Finn.

When Blaine wakes in the morning - or closer to the afternoon - the voices in his head have miraculously gone. Or are temporarily silent. Blaine doesn’t know which, but he welcomes the break. Despite having a touch of an anxiety hangover, he feels refreshed after finally getting several hours’ sleep. But there’s a heaviness within him, a weight that didn’t exist inside him before, and there’s no one he can ask about it. He’d considered doing a Google search on Kitty’s murder, but he doesn’t want to actually _find_ something, especially if it links her, in some way, to him. He’d prefer it if she disappeared from his memory. Blaine should avoid thinking about Kitty or Jake altogether. Even though he couldn’t conjure them the one time he wanted them, he’s afraid that any passing thought of them might coax them out.

So digging around for news about Kitty probably won’t help that any.

He could talk to Kurt, but that wouldn’t give him any answers; it would just needlessly worry his boyfriend more. Though, after Jake’s warning, would it really be  _needless_? Even if Blaine doesn’t know who might be after him - and by extension, Kurt - shouldn’t he give his boyfriend a head’s up? How that conversation would go, Blaine can’t begin to predict, but it’s better than not having it at all. Blaine isn’t an alarmist, but he wants to keep Kurt safe at all costs. Of course, in lieu of a conversation, he could proactively sign Kurt up for self-defense classes. They’d been meaning to go to a class together anyway after Kurt was attacked, but after he rehabilitated, Kurt was so eager to put the whole thing behind him, it kept getting put off. Now seems like a good time to bring the subject back up. Barring that, Blaine could get Kurt some pepper spray … a rape whistle … a Taser … possibly a gun.

Blaine could also try to talk Kurt into allowing him to get a dog for their place.

A _big_ dog.

The kind they’d have to get a permit to keep, that’s trained to go for the jugular, and only understands commands in cryptic Eastern Slavic dialects.

But Blaine decides to put a pin in that and worry about it later. It’s a brand new day. He’ll put the crazy behind him for a few hours and focus on recovery. That way, he can better handle the crazy when it shows its ugly grill later on that night, which Blaine has a nagging suspicion it will.

Kurt’s side of the bed is empty, only Blaine’s arm stretched across it occupying the space. He doesn’t recall if Kurt mentioned having any appointments for the morning. It’s the weekend so no, he shouldn’t. But Kurt does have one or two clients who feel the world revolves around them. They tend to drop by unannounced, so it’s still a possibility. But no voices in Blaine’s head means that he can shoot for a redux of their early morning romp without the inclusion of Brittany, Santana, or any of Blaine’s other interlopers.

Blaine raises his head from the pillow and searches the room. Kurt’s cell phone is missing from the table on his side of the bed, which means he’s definitely dressed, and could be out and about. Blaine turns to the dresser beside him and grabs his cell phone. He unlocks the screen and checks for new text messages.

Not a one.

Strange. Kurt usually doesn’t even go downstairs for the mail without sending Blaine a text. A bitter taste rises up Blaine’s throat and fills his mouth, but he presses it down, along with the uneasiness tearing through his stomach.

 _Stay calm_ , he tells himself.  _Don’t overreact._ _Think this through_.

He’ll give Kurt a call, find out where he went and when he’ll be back. It’ll all be good. This is normal. In spite of one discrepancy, there’s nothing to worry about. Kurt’s a big boy. He can handle himself. He probably didn’t go farther than four blocks from the apartment. What can happen in the space of four blocks at (Blaine checks the time on his screen) eleven in the morning?

Blaine pulls up Kurt’s number and hits call.

It goes immediately to voicemail.

Blaine’s heart thuds forcefully in his ribcage, sending icicle-sharp stitches reverberating through the muscles of his chest. He tries to call Kurt again, then again, but all of his calls go to voicemail. Panic floods his body. Lying underneath Kurt’s comforter suddenly becomes uncomfortably hot, and the air around him too cold. He leaps out of bed and takes a quick walk through their place, looking for signs of Kurt, for clues that something might not be right with him. That something might have happened this morning while Blaine slept.

That someone might have broken in and taken Kurt.

But nothing seems off or out of place. The door is locked in the usual way, Kurt’s coat and keys gone. Blaine walks by Kurt’s “office area” (the space in their living room where he meets with his clients), but everything there looks tidy and organized.

 _Kurt’s fine,_ Blaine tells himself, with a knot like molten glass forming in his gut.  _He didn’t go far. He’s most likely at Starbucks, grabbing a cup of coffee and one of those breakfast buns he likes so much. He’ll be back soon._

And when he does come back, Blaine can work on getting him back into bed.

But, if it’s that simple, if he just went out for a cup of coffee, why didn’t Kurt send him a text?

Why isn’t he answering his phone?

Blaine swallows hard, his throat too dry, too cluttered, a knot similar to the one in his stomach almost choking him.

 _This still isn’t a problem_ , he tries to convince himself. _Remove the events of last night - the hallucinations, the voices, a woman being shot through the head - and it’s just another Saturday morning._

Except, those things  _did_  happen last night. Slowly, Blaine is coming to terms with them, no matter how desperately he wants them to go away. And they’re frightening enough to make all the difference.

An hour. He’ll give Kurt an hour. If he’s not back by then, Blaine will call the police.

And maybe the National Guard.

Blaine sends Kurt a text:

_Hey, baby! Get home quick. I’m awake and in the shower. Come join me. ;)_

Then, in the hopes that turning on the water will somehow cause his boyfriend to materialize, he jumps into his second shower of the day.

***

For a man who enjoys his time under a hot water spray (and Blaine’s third favorite thing to do in life is shower), he’s washed up and out in under ten minutes.

“Kurt?”

Blaine walks out of the bathroom (drying his hair with Kurt’s favorite powder blue bamboo towel as if, again, this will cause Kurt to magically appear for the sole purpose of reminding Blaine that they have separate towels _for a reason_ ) in search of his boyfriend. He thought he’d heard a door close, and footsteps walk across the floor. That had to be Kurt.

Who the heck else would it be?

“Kurt? Baby? I thought you were going to join me in the shower. I sent you a text and everything …”

Blaine can’t see a thing with the towel hanging in front of his face, but he knows the path from the bathroom to the living room like the back of his hand. He’s naked, grinning at the thought that Kurt might be doing a consultation in their living room at this very moment.

While Blaine showered, he tried to figure out what could have possibly caused Kurt to leave in such a rush that he wouldn’t wake Blaine, or tell him where he was going. He deduced that the reason Kurt might have sprinted out so early, forgetting to send him a text, was because one of his “special snowflake clients” had called him, frantically on the verge of buying 100 yards of an avocado green, polyester-rayon blend, and Kurt’s only recourse was to go to whatever bargain basement fabric store they were at and talk them down. Then he’d bring them back here to his designing den of safety.

Which means Blaine is about to interrupt a thrilling conversation about seams and biases whilst wet and nude.

Excellent.

“Kurt?”

Blaine takes one step into the living room and a strange sensation hits him. He’s not alone, which he’d assumed, but his boyfriend isn’t there either. There is  _someone_  in the room with him - a presence more than a person. That doesn’t make any sense, but that’s it regardless. He doesn’t hear the woman sitting on the sofa as much as he feels her. There’s an odd sound in his head, like an alert, a low hum, and he just knows she’s there.

He pulls the towel off his head to wrap around his waist and there she is, sitting on the sofa, staring out the window. If her hair was lighter, he might fool himself into thinking he’s looking at Kurt. But he’s not. He’s looking at a petite brunette, wearing a white rain coat covered in red cherries, a red umbrella in her lap, and a matching red scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. She appears more like she’s waiting for a bus outside, not sitting on a sofa in a Manhattan apartment.

She reminds Blaine of a ghost. He can see her. She’s definitely corporeal, but there’s something about her that kind of fades in and out of existence even if she doesn’t disappear, her physical presence waning in his mind. He decides to talk to her. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help himself. He knows she’s not going anywhere until he does. This woman, whose reflection he can see in the glass as he gets closer, stares impassively at the building across the way, but her mind is somewhere else. She’s not there as much as she is there, and yet, she’s still not there.

It gives him a headache thinking about it, so he stops thinking.

Blaine walks over to the sofa and sits down, careful to keep the towel from untying at his hip and causing a scene. He squints at the woman sitting beside him, and an empty recognition of sorts hits him. “You’re … are you Rachel?”

He’s tempted to touch her but decides against it. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe she _is_ a client of Kurt’s. She looks like the kind of person who regularly comes to see Kurt for a consultation – primped, manicured, heavily into vintage couture. This woman in particular dresses like she stepped out of a Broadway musical and is about to perform a catchy, reflective number. Blaine can picture her singing something Streisand-esque, like from  _Funny Girl_.

“Yeah,” the woman says, looking at Blaine through darting side-glances of her soft brown eyes. “And you’re Blaine.”

“That’s right,” he says, unnerved. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not here,” she says with mild confusion. “I’m in Central Park, at the duck pond.” This time, she turns to face him. “Have you been there?”

“Not recently.”

“You should go.” She looks back out the window. “It’s beautiful today.”

An image of Central Park fills Blaine’s vision – the blue sky overhead, the towering trees, the lush grass. The park is busy today. Children run and play, people walk their dogs. Ahead of him, he sees a large pond. Families of ducks with their ducklings paddle across the surface, filling the air with their happy, conversational quacking. The woman fits in better out here. But he, with his towel and wet hair, shouldn’t be there. Then, what she said makes sense. He’s  _not_  there. _She’s_ there. And because she’s there, he’s there, but he’s also in his living room with her, who’s not there. Another headache. He lets it go. “I used to come here all the time,” she continues, “with my fiancé, before …”

Her words trail off, and Blaine feels a pain in his chest, like someone is trying to drill a hole in his heart. It’s powerful, debilitating. It takes his breath away. But the second he can articulate it, it’s completely gone.

“Before …?” he asks hesitantly, afraid the pain will return if she can find a way to explain herself.

“Before he passed away.” She tilts her face to the side and away when a little kid, chasing a baseball, runs up to her. The boy, probably no more than five, with sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes, looks at her. It seems like he might see Blaine as well. He scrunches his nose and giggles, then turns and runs back in the direction he came.

“I’m … I’m sorry to hear that.” Tears build behind Blaine’s eyes and he wonders where in the hell his boyfriend went? Why the hell isn’t he there now? “But, what are you doing here?”

“I’m not sure. I was feeling lost, and alone. I was walking through the park on my way to … somewhere.” She laughs. “You know, I can’t remember where. And I sort of ended up here.” She shakes her head, and the tears Blaine feels in his own eyes roll down her cheek. “Has that ever happened to you?”

“I don’t know.” Blaine reaches behind him and pulls a tissue from the box Kurt keeps there. “I don’t think it has.”

She takes the tissue with a quiet, “Thank you,” and dabs at her eyes, skillfully avoiding her eye makeup. “Well” – she sniffles – “what were _you_ doing a moment ago?”

“I was …” Blaine chuckles ironically. “Well, I was missing my boyfriend. But, I think he just stepped out to go get coffee or something. He should be back any minute.”

Rachel smiles sadly. “You’re lucky. Do you love him?”

The question strikes Blaine as insanely personal, even considering, but he doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Yes. More than anything.”

She nods. “Well, when he comes back, make sure you hold him, and kiss him …” Words start to fail her “… look in his eyes … smell his skin …” Another tear rolls down her cheek, but when it falls, it lands on Blaine’s towel. “I don’t … I can’t remember what my fiancé smelled like, or what he sounded like. I used to at least remember the sound of his voice saying my name, but I … I don’t anymore.”

Blaine is about to say he’s sorry – another hollow apology, he thinks, and how many of those has she gotten already? - when the pain returns, hitting him full force in the chest, locking around his heart and squeezing. A dozen memories flash in front of his eyes, memories that aren’t his, of a man with brown hair and brown eyes, passing a football, dancing badly, singing, playing the drums, laughing, riding on a roller coaster, chasing after a train with Rachel on it, wearing army fatigues, cleaning a rifle, and then … black. Nothing. But then, the whole montage begins to rewind, except the man is gone and it’s Kurt this time – playing football, dancing, singing, playing the piano, laughing, riding with Blaine on a roller coaster at Six Flags, watching Blaine from an airport window as his plane takes off, and then, not black, not nothing, just … over.

“Finn …” Blaine says, his throat constricted so tightly he can barely take a breath.

“Kurt …” Rachel whispers.

“Blaine,” Kurt calls out as he opens the door to their apartment. “Blaine, are you awake?” Kurt spots his boyfriend over the edge of his Whole Foods shopping bag, sitting on the sofa, staring out the window, and smiles. “I’m sorry I took so long,” he says, heading for the kitchen. “I just had to go get some  _unf_!”

It takes about five strides for Blaine to cross from the living room to the kitchen, grab the shopping bag out of Kurt’s hands, drop it on the counter, and wrap Kurt in his arms.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” Kurt says with a laugh, but grimacing when he feels the remaining shower water on Blaine’s skin soak through his cashmere sweater. “I missed you, too.”

Blaine doesn’t answer. He holds Kurt tighter and now, Kurt can tell he’s shaking.

“Blaine? Honey, are you okay?”

Blaine sniffles, loosening his grip, but not letting go.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I just … you didn’t text me or anything, Kurt. Why didn’t you text me? Or call? I called you, Kurt. I called you three times.”

“I … I’m so sorry,” Kurt says, massaging the back of his boyfriend’s neck to calm him. “I took my phone with me, but the battery died. I have to remember to plug it in when I get home.”

“Oh” – Blaine sighs in relief, then breathes in deep, capturing the smell of cold on Kurt’s skin. But underneath that, his aftershave, his body wash, his shampoo – those signature scents that are a part of Kurt, always on his skin – “I guess that makes sense.”

“Blaine?” Kurt tries to pull away, but Blaine won’t let him. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, but … uh … could you maybe wake me up next time? Before you go out?”

“I thought you needed to rest,” Kurt explains. “I mean, after this morning …” A tiny smile slips onto Kurt’s lips, since this morning included incredible, spontaneous sex for him, but the memory makes Blaine cringe, a piece of his conscience breaking for what he’s unknowingly gotten Kurt into.

“I---I know, but I really wanted to go with you.”

Kurt raises a quizzical brow. “You wanted to come with me? To Whole Foods?” It’s not entirely unheard of, just … a little confusing considering the emotional upheaval of the night before. Blaine doesn’t sleep late often, but it’s not something he objects to. Both of them can appreciate the novelty of a lazy weekend in bed.

Regardless, Blaine normally doesn’t have a problem with waking up alone.

“Yeah. I needed some … uh … arugula.”

“I … didn’t know.” Kurt bobs his head in a repetitive half nod as he tries to figure his boyfriend out. “But I promise, I will wake you up next time. Hey, maybe we can go out together later and get that … arugula.” He pats Blaine on the shoulder, chalking this odd behavior up to Blaine’s horrible night. Kurt is still not entirely sure what happened, but he thought he could take Blaine’s mind off of it with a smoked gouda quiche and champagne brunch, and then take a second stab at trying to make his boyfriend cum, since Kurt knew he hadn’t when they had sex before.

Food and sex are a panacea to Blaine. He’d had a rocky relationship with food when he graduated high school and moved to New York but, with Kurt’s help, he got that under control.

Again, another way Blaine relied on Kurt.

But food has always played a part in their relationship, from their high school days when whole afternoons were spent baking cookies in the kitchen of Kurt’s house, to the present, when the preparation and enjoyment of a hearty, home-cooked meal often acts as the precursor to foreplay.

To celebrate the first song Blaine ever sold, he and Kurt ordered the most incredible five cheese and roasted pepper pizza, brought it home, ate it, and then had three hours of the hottest sex imaginable. Combined, it was such a mind-blowing experience that they didn’t realize a fire had broken out a few floors down until the fire department showed up at their door, even though the alarm out in the hallway had been blaring for a good forty-five minutes straight.

Kurt had considered waking Blaine up that morning with a blowjob and then inviting him to come with, but Blaine had finally fallen asleep, and Kurt didn’t want to wake him. He couldn’t have been gone longer than an hour, _maybe_ an hour and a half. He’d tried texting Blaine when he got to the store, but his cell phone battery had died. He’d hoped Blaine would still be asleep when he got home.

Basically, the morning was an epic failure.

In an effort to salvage the day from here on out, Kurt starts talking about random things - mindless, unimportant things that might help Blaine relax - like the high price of artichokes, and the unavailability of Queen Bee honey. He manages to untangle himself from Blaine’s grasp, but holds on to him with the conversation. Blaine listens to Kurt talk, hangs on his every word. He doesn’t want to look over his shoulder, doesn’t want confirmation of what he already knows. He follows Kurt with his eyes, staring, telling himself that no matter what, he won’t look. He doesn’t need to look. He’ll avoid the sofa – no, the living room – for as long as they live here. But Kurt bustles to his work space over by the window, and Blaine can’t put it off any longer. He looks at the sofa, but the woman in the cherry print raincoat is gone.

Like Jake earlier that morning, and Brittany after that, she’s vanished.

 


End file.
